DAVE DAWSON WITH THE COMMANDOS

by R. SIDNEY BOWEN

Author of:
"DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R. A. F."
"DAVE DAWSON IN LIBYA"
"DAVE DAWSON ON CONVOY PATROL"
"DAVE DAWSON, FLIGHT LIEUTENANT"
"DAVE DAWSON AT SINGAPORE"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE PACIFIC FLEET"
"DAVE DAWSON WITH THE AIR CORPS"

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

Strange Orders

The waiter came over to the table and smiled politely.

"Is there anything else I can get you two gentlemen?" he asked.

Dave Dawson looked up from his empty plate and shook his head emphatically.

"No thanks," he said. "I'm close to the bursting point right now. Anything more and I'd need a second stomach to hold it. You can bring the check, please."

"Very good, sir," the waiter said, and started over to the cashier's nook.

"I say, just a minute!" Freddy Farmer stopped him. "I'm not quite filled yet. I'll have another piece of that pie, please. And you might bring me another pot of tea. With cream."

The waiter blinked and stared, but caught himself quickly.

"Yes, sir, at once," he said, and hurried away.

Dave groaned and made a little gesture with his hand.

"There's a name for guys like you, pal," he said. "But it isn't polite to say it in public. For the love of mike, Freddy! What have you been doing, tossing it under the table when I wasn't looking? Man! You've packed away enough chow to feed a regiment."

"I was as hungry as a regiment when we came in," the English-born air ace said placidly. "You've no objections, have you?"

"Not a one," Dawson grinned. "Go ahead and kill yourself. But when you feel the explosion coming on, let me know. I'll want to be leaving in a hurry."

"Have no fear," Freddy Farmer assured him. "There will be no explosion. Good grief! Can't a hungry chap eat without you staring constantly? After these last five weeks I feel as though I'll never get enough food into me. You Americans certainly do a thing for fair, when you have a go at it."

"Meaning what?" Dave echoed absently as he stared across the hotel dining room at two rather tough-looking, yet well dressed civilians seated at a table. "What are you talking about this time?"

"Why, about what I said," Freddy replied. "These last five weeks! Or have you forgotten already? If so, I'll refresh your memory. For the last five weeks we have been attending one of your Commando training schools, or rather, I should say, Ranger training schools. We completed the course only yesterday, and here we are on leave awaiting orders. We both took English Commando training last year in England. But it was certainly nothing like the training we've just completed here in the States. You Americans really—I say! Are you listening to me?"

"Huh?" Dave grunted, and looked at him. "Were you saying something, pal?"

Freddy pressed his lips tight and blew air through his nose.

"How you ever became a commissioned officer, with such manners, I'll never understand!" he snorted. "Of course I was saying something! But don't let me bore you further. I can see something frightfully important is on your mind. You do have a mind, don't you? Well, what is it? I'll be patient, and listen."

"Oh, skip it," Dave grinned. "Sorry from the bottom of my heart, sweetheart. Go ahead. Put the record on again."

"Like Shakespeare, I never chew my cabbage twice!" Freddy snapped. "No, never mind. I insist upon knowing the reason for that puzzled look on that homely face of yours. Out with it, my lad."

"Just a couple of fellows eating on the other side of the room," Dave said. "I've caught them eying us quite a bit. Came in just after we did. No! Don't look right now, dope! It's not polite."

Freddy checked his turning head and flushed slightly.

"Rubbish!" he mumbled. "But what's wrong with two people looking at us? Frankly, I think we look rather pukka in our U. S. Army Air Force uniforms, and wings, and all that sort of thing. Or perhaps I present an interesting contrast to your sloppy appearance."

"Boy! You must have strained a brain cell on that!" Dave growled. "Okay! So people look at us. But there are about twenty other officers in this dining room. And these two guys—Well, if I were going to rob a bank, or maybe kidnap somebody, I think I might be tempted to make a deal with those two. Okay! Take a sneak look now."

Freddy twisted around and made as though to brush something off his left shoulder with his right hand. He took a quick look across the dining room and then turned back to Dave.

"Phew! They are a nasty-looking pair, aren't they!" he breathed. "But maybe they're house detectives, or something. I've always read in your American detective books that hotel detectives are generally horrible-looking creatures."

"Say, maybe you've got something there, pal!" Dave said with a laugh. "That's what they've been doing!"

"Eh?" the English youth echoed. "What have they been doing?"

"Counting the knives and forks and spoons, as the waiter put them in front of you!" Dave shot at him. "I bet you a buck they search you before you leave."

"Well, they'd certainly—!" Freddy gasped before he caught himself. "Blast your ears, Dave! You made me fall right into that one. Right you are! My turn will come, my good fellow. Seriously speaking, though, have they really been giving us more than usual notice?"

"I'd call it that," Dave said with a shrug. "But maybe my imagination's going a little bit haywire tonight. No, not that, exactly. I mean, waiting for orders makes me think all kinds of things. Darn it all, the picture just isn't complete, if you get what I mean."

Freddy Farmer shook his head and looked very grave.

"I'm afraid I don't, old chap," he said. "Something bothering you that I don't know anything about?"

"Nope," Dawson said. "Nothing that you don't know about. It's the set-up we're in now. Five weeks ago we volunteered to take the Commando training course. Colonel Welsh, Chief of all U. S. Intelligence, thought it would be a good idea if we took it. So we did. So we completed training yesterday. So we came down here to New York on leave until orders should arrive. But we had to say where we'd be stopping. Okay. So far, so good. But how long do we stay here? What happens next? What orders are we going to receive? And when? And how will they come to us? See what I mean? It's all hanging in the air. Nothing definite. Heck! We might be at a movie when a phone call came through from Colonel Welsh or somebody, and we wouldn't be here. I mean, it strikes me that we should have been told to report to somebody every day to see if our orders were ready. But—"

Dave let the rest slide, and gestured helplessly. Freddy nodded slowly, and pursed his lips.

"You're quite right, Dave," he murmured, and frowned. "It does seem a bit queer, when you come to think of it. I—Good grief! Do you suppose, Dave?"

Dawson looked at him with one eyebrow cocked.

"Do I suppose what?" he asked.

At that moment the waiter arrived with Freddy's second slice of pie and his pot of tea. The English youth waited until he had made his retreat.

"Do you suppose we failed horribly at the Commando school," he said, "and—and this is just a gentle way of letting us down? I mean, sort of give us a bit of leave here in New York to buck up our spirits, and then post us back to some air squadron?"

Dave didn't say anything for a moment. He thought back over the last five weeks of vigorous training that either made or broke a man.

"I don't mean to boast," he said slowly, "but if we didn't pass out of that training school with pretty fair marks, then there can't be more than a dozen or so who did. But now you've hit upon the thought that's been bothering me."

"Make that a bit clearer," Freddy said. "I don't quite follow you. What thought?"

"The Commando business," Dave replied with a little gesture. "We took the training because Colonel Welsh thought it would be a good idea. Does that mean we're Commandos from now on? Are we waiting for Commando orders? Or are we waiting for further orders from Colonel Welsh?"

"Good grief, yes!" the English youth gasped, and smiled faintly. "Fact is, though, I've been so jammed full of Commando tactics these last five weeks, that it didn't even occur to me that we might not continue along that line. Quite, Dave! Ten to one the Commando business is all behind us, and we're simply waiting for Colonel Welsh to dig us up another Air Intelligence assignment. But somehow—"

Freddy Farmer let the rest hang in mid-air, and gave a little half shake of his head.

"Somehow you hope not, Freddy?" Dave asked softly. "That what you mean, pal?"

Freddy grinned and nodded slightly.

"Frankly, yes," he said. "I enjoyed every minute of that Commando school. I fancy I'd like the chance to put into actual practice a bit of what I learned. Quite! It would be a bit satisfying to take a knife away from some Nazi blighter and toss him over my shoulder, the way they taught us."

"You can say that again!" Dave chuckled. "I received a lot of lumps learning that bit of self-defense. I sure would like to try it out on a Nazi tramp. And no rubber knife, either, like the instructor used. But, heck! I guess we're just hollering down the rain barrel, pal. Commando and Yank Ranger units are being formed in England, not here. That's where the finishing touches are put on. After all, we're a couple of pilots, not infantrymen. No, I guess Colonel Welsh figured it might be a good idea to round out our combat education a bit. So he suggested that we take the course."

"Probably," Freddy agreed with an unhappy sigh. "Just a bit of schooling to keep us out of trouble while he decided what job to set us at next. Oh well, I enjoyed the schooling—thoroughly!"

"It was fun, and how," Dave grunted. "But I sure hate to have all these tough muscles I built up go to waste. Doggone you, Freddy! Seeing you shovel that extra slab of pie into your face has made me hungry again! I guess I'll join you, at that. But without the tea!"

Dave turned to signal the waiter, and it was then that he saw the man in person heading his way. The waiter carried a white envelope in one hand, and he was taking the shortest route across the dining room. In his other hand he carried the dinner check. In true waiter style, he presented the check first. Dave glanced at the score and whistled under his breath. The hotel they had picked slip-out-of-the-hat style was not exactly favorable to a Captain's pay. However, he felt a little better when he realized that three fourths of the check was Freddy Farmer's obligation.

"Pardon," murmured the waiter. "Are you Captains Dawson and Farmer?"

"That's right," Dave told him. "I'm Captain Dawson. So that makes him Captain Farmer."

"A gentleman just gave this to the head waiter, sir," the man said, and held out the envelope. "He said it was to be given to either Captain Dawson or Captain Farmer."

"Thanks," Dave said, and took the envelope.

It was plain white and contained Freddy's name and rank, and his own, on the outside. There was nothing else written on the front side. He glanced at Freddy and then turned it over to pry up the gummed flap. He saw that two ink lines had been drawn across the sealed portion. In that way it was possible to tell if the letter had been opened. He peered at the two ink lines and knew that the letter had not been unsealed.

"What do you suppose?" Freddy murmured.

"Could be from the management asking us to leave because you eat too much," Dave grunted, and wedged a finger under the corner of the flap. "But my guess is that it's what we've been waiting for: word from Colonel Welsh. He has a habit of doing things this way, you know. But pardon me! It's addressed to us both. Do you want to open it, my little man?"

"Stop your silly chatter, and open the blasted thing!" the English youth snapped. "I'm on pins and needles."

"Give me time!" Dave growled, and struggled with the flap. "The darn thing seems nailed down as well as gummed. Okay. Here goes for the news."

He got the flap torn open and pulled out what was inside. It was a single sheet of fool's cap paper, and the words on it were neatly typed. He read the two paragraphs that made up the letter, and his scowl deepened with each new word. Freddy, watching him, twisted and squirmed in his chair with suspense. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Here!" he snapped. "Pass it over, if you don't know how to read!"

"Take a read," Dave said softly, as his scowl remained. "Take a good read, and then you tell me, pal!"

CHAPTER TWO

Night Attack

It was all Freddy Farmer could do not to snatch the letter from Dave's extended hand. He took it, settled back in his chair, and bent his eyes on the typed words. Stunned amazement spread all over his wind- and sun-bronzed face as he read the two paragraphs.

"Upon receiving this you will leave your hotel and proceed to Six Hundred and Ninety-Seven (697) River Street.

"The route you will follow to this address is as follows. Walk from your hotel south to Cort Street. Go west along Cort Street to Tenth Avenue. Then south to River Street, and east to Number 697. There ring the bell under the name, Brown. Be sure to follow these route directions exactly.

"X-Fifteen"

Freddy read it through twice, and then raised his eyes to meet Dave's.

"X-Fifteen?" he murmured softly. "That's one of the code identifications that Colonel Welsh uses! So he must be here in New York, and not in Washington."

"Could be," Dave grunted, and started to push back his chair. "The Colonel gets around a lot, you know. Well, I guess that's us, pal. Certainly screwy orders. That's quite a walk from here. But maybe after you've had Commando training you're a sissy if you take a cab. So—Well, what do you know?"

"Eh?" Freddy Farmer ejaculated. "What do I know?"

Dave stood up and half nodded his head at the other side of the dining room.

"Our rough tough-looking friends have vanished in thin air," he said. "They aren't around any more. Must have got sick of giving us the eye, and pulled out."

"Their perfect right!" Freddy snorted, and got up also. "You were probably imagining things, anyway. Right you are. Let's get on with it. We—Half a minute, my fair weather friend! You haven't left enough money for your share of the dinner."

"One fourth of the bill, plus tip," Dave grunted scornfully. "Read it and weep. Three fourths of that went inside you, sweetheart. I love you like a brother, but I refuse to foot your food bills. Nix! And double nix!"

"Phew, so I did!" Freddy gasped as he ran his eye down the list of things served them. "And the trouble is, I'm still hungry. Oh, very well. Share and share alike, with a tightwad like you. Even figured it out to the penny, too! Now, if you were with me in England—"

"I'd be pleading with the cops not to have you shot for stomach hoarding!" Dave snapped. "Pay up, and shut up. Or pay it off washing dishes. You'd look cute in an apron, Freddy. I could meet you later and let you know what Colonel Welsh has to say. I—"

He stopped and grinned wickedly as Freddy threw him a rapier glare. The English youth paid his share and then joined him as Dave walked out of the dining room. They got their hats from the check girl, and went on out through the hotel lobby to the street. The dim-out had come to New York City, and it made both of them think of London, and other war-scarred cities they had seen.

For several blocks they were too contented with their own thoughts to speak. But when they were almost halfway to their destination, Freddy Farmer broke the silence.

"You know, Dave," he said, "this makes a chap feel rather silly. It's like a game you'd play in school, or something. I mean, why in the world have us follow this particular route? You'd think we had valuable information, and were taking this route to some secret headquarters to throw off possible pursuit. Blasted queer, I call it!"

"You tell me something about war that isn't screwy at first glance," Dave grunted as they turned the corner into Cort Street. "But Colonel Welsh knows his business, and if he wants us to walk all over town to report to him, then we walk all over town. But he sure did pick the darker streets. This one right here makes me think of a coal mine. Watch your step, Freddy, or you may spill into an ash can or something. In this section of town they don't always put them right on the curb. And—"

Dave stopped talking abruptly, and he also pulled up to a quick halt. Freddy went on a pace or two, then stopped and waited.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Think you were running into one of them? An ash can, I mean?"

"No," Dawson grunted, and moved forward again. "Thought I saw something moving up ahead—somebody ducking into a doorway. Doggone it! I must be getting the jimjams. You'd think I were trying to steal across Berlin and give the Gestapo the go-by. Good gosh! This is New York, for cat's sake! And—Freddy!"

Dave had only time to bark out his pal's name as two shadows came charging out of a night-darkened doorway. He sensed them, rather than saw or heard them. It was more that sixth sense, that science calls premonition, that put him on the alert and made him drop halfway to one knee and shoot his hands up and out in front of him.

One of the shadows came at him like a streak of black lightning. He wasn't sure, but in the split second he was allowed to set himself he thought he saw the dull gleam of a knife in an upraised hand. Maybe so; maybe not. He didn't bother to make sure. The silent attacker was coming upon him too fast. There was no time for thought. There was only time for action—furious, split second action for which he had been training these last five weeks.

And so action it was! He dropped like a flash, ducked his head, and then stiffened his legs and shot his body upward, half turning it at the same time. He felt the top of his head crash into a broad chest, and he felt his hands lock about the wrist of the hand that held the knife. A quick pivot on the balls of his feet, and a bend downward that brought the attacker's arm down across his shoulder. He heard the gasp of pain, heard the clatter of a knife hitting the pavement, and then he was arching his back and twisting viciously. The result was that his helpless attacker flew over him like a sack of wet wheat, and slammed down on the pavement on his side. Dave clung to the wrist, but the attacker's greater weight pulled it free, and the man went rolling over and over toward the gutter.

In a flash, Dave dived after him, but the attacker seemed full of coiled steel springs. He was up on his feet in a flash and speeding down the badly lighted street. Impulsively Dave streaked his hand to where his holstered service gun should have been. Only it wasn't there. It was back in the bureau drawer in his hotel room! He took a couple of leaping steps after the fleeing shadow, but checked himself and swerved sharply as a second shadow virtually flew past him. He shot out his hands, got hold of jacketcloth, but all the good that did him was that he ripped off a piece of a jacket as the second shadow went by him and down the street.

"Dave! You all right?"

He turned to see Freddy Farmer at his elbow. The English youth was breathing hard, and fingering the right side of his jaw.

"I'm okay, but boiling!" Dave grated. "I had my bird cold, so I thought. But he must be made of rubber. I couldn't stay with him. What's the matter with your jaw?"

"The blighter's head!" Freddy Farmer muttered. "We connected violently. Say, Dave! Those beggars had knives. There's one! And there's the other. Phew! Wicked-looking things, aren't they?"

The English youth had stooped down and retrieved two knives out of the gutter. In the bad light Dave and Freddy saw that they were mates. Each was about seven inches long, razor sharp, and with a needle point. Dave squinted at them and whistled softly.

"You see what I see, Freddy?" he breathed. "They had knives exactly like those at the Commando school! Looks like a couple of thugs stole a couple."

"But as you said, Dave," Freddy cried, "this is New York! I know your underworld characters use machine guns, and such. But do they also go about the streets knifing people to steal their purses?"

Dave didn't reply at once. He stood scowling down at the pair of knives, as cold, clammy chills started rippling up and down his spine. He knew full well that anything can happen in New York City, and usually does in time. But to be knifed for the few dollars he carried, instead of being blackjacked, or held up at the point of a gun, was something that just didn't jell right in his brain. He also was hit by another equally disturbing thought. The light had been so bad, and the action so swift and short lived, he hadn't got so much as a flash glimpse at either of the attackers. But for general build—well, he couldn't help but think of the two hard-faced men back in the hotel dining room.

"I'm nuts, completely nuts!" he chided himself aloud. "It just couldn't have been!"

"What couldn't have been?" Freddy Farmer wanted to know.

"Those two, just now," Dave replied. "I had the flash thought that they might have been that hard-faced pair in the dining room. But they didn't come at us from behind. They were ahead of us. Besides, they left before we did. Well, which of these do you want for a souvenir?"

"Neither," Freddy replied. "I suggest we turn them over to Colonel Welsh. Those are Commando knives, right enough. He might be interested to know that some of your American underworld chaps also carry them."

"Or—" Dave started to say, and then stopped himself with a snort of disgust. "Doggone, but my imagination is going haywire tonight! Must be something I ate."

"You don't think they were underworld beggars?" the English youth demanded. "Good grief! You're not thinking of Nazi agents, are you?"

"Well, I did give it a whirl for a second or two," Dawson confessed with a shrug. "But that's plain silly. No Nazi agents should have any interest in us, right now."

"I don't know about that," Freddy grunted as they started along the street again. "The Gestapo beggars are quite keen about revenge killings, you know. And we've been lucky enough to send a few of them to where they belong in days gone by."

"Okay, Nazi agents!" Dave snorted. "They read those route instructions before we did, and were waiting for us in the dark doorway! See? It doesn't make sense, Freddy. It's all cockeyed to drag Nazi agents into this thing."

"You're right, of course," the English youth murmured. "But all I can say is, praise the good Lord for our Commando training. I'm still shuddering, thinking of one of those things slicing into my hide. And my beggar almost got me, I'll frankly confess."

"Well, mine didn't exactly send me a letter," Dave echoed. "I'm sore we didn't stop them, though. After that scare it would have done me a world of good to go to work on his mug. Well, one thing, and that's final. From now on I'm not going to leave my gun parked in a bureau drawer. Let the public laugh and snicker. If I'd had it, I could have clipped that bird in the leg and brought him down. But, boy! What a pair of broken field runners they were!"

"Let's try and forget about them, if you don't mind," Freddy said with a little shudder. "And let's put on a bit of speed. My nerves never were of the best, you know."

The remark brought a laugh from Dave.

"Listen to him lie, will you!" he cried. "Pal, if your nerves aren't the best I ever came across, then I'm Uncle Bay-Window Goering. But I was just about to suggest, myself, that we get over on Tenth Avenue where there's more light and fewer darkened doorways. Not too fast, though. I've still got some jelly in my knee joints."

The rest of the trip, though, was made without incident or accident. And in due time they were standing in front of a five storied brick building that was Number 697 River Street. The street was dimmed out like all the rest, but it wasn't half so dark as had been Cort Street. Also, there were plenty of people passing by on the sidewalks. They stared up at the building front in silence for a moment. It showed only one lighted room, and that was on the third floor.

"Well let's go up the steps and push Mr. Brown's bell button," Dave eventually grunted. "There's an entryway light there, so we should be able to find it. Let's go."

They went up the stone steps to the small outer foyer that contained a double row of bell buttons. They found the one that had "Brown" printed on the plate card, and Dave stabbed it with his thumb. They didn't hear the ring inside, and for a couple of minutes they stood there just waiting.

"Give it another go, Dave," Freddy suggested.

Dawson lifted his hand, but froze it in mid-air as the shadow of a figure appeared on the other side of the door. There was the sound of a locking bolt being shot, and a key being turned. Then the door was pulled inward to reveal the figure on the other side. Both Dave and Freddy gulped and stared. Standing in the lighted doorway was a Sergeant of infantry, complete with side-arms. The Sergeant flashed them both a searching look, then stepped back, opening the door wider.

"Come in, sirs," he said. "And follow me, please."

CHAPTER THREE

Eastward To War

For a long minute Dave and Freddy just stood there and stared at the infantry Sergeant as though he were something escaped from a museum. Then they snapped out of their collective trance and stepped in through the door. It was then that Freddy let the question pop off his lips before he could stop it.

"Is Colonel Welsh here, Sergeant?" he asked.

The non-commissioned officer looked at him with a faint puzzled frown.

"Colonel Welsh, sir?" he echoed. Then, shaking his head, "No, sir. There's no Colonel Welsh here. My orders are to take you to Major Barber. Follow me, please."

The two flying aces exchanged looks, shrugged, and then followed the Sergeant up the stairs. On the landing of the third floor the Sergeant turned right along a hallway and finally came to a stop in front of the fifth door down on the right. He motioned politely for Dave and Freddy to wait, then knocked and went inside.

"I don't think I like this, Dave!" Freddy whispered when they were left alone. "You heard him say that Colonel Welsh wasn't here. What the devil do you suppose is up?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Dawson replied with a scowl. "I'm beginning to suspect, though, that it's something very hush-hush. I still wish I hadn't left my service gun in the hotel. Here, Freddy. I'm probably acting silly, but you never can tell."

As Dave spoke the last he fished out one of the Commando knives and slipped it into Freddy Farmer's hand. The English youth took it without a word and let it slide into his pocket out of sight.

"Think we're foolish to wait here, Dave?" he breathed a moment later. "After what's happened tonight, we may be simply asking for more trouble. It's certainly a mixed up mess."

"Plenty screwy," Dave grunted with a nod. "But I'm a curious cuss. And I'm just sore enough to follow this whole cockeyed business through to the end. But keep on guard, Freddy. Back to back, pal, and so forth."

"Quite!" Freddy grated, and hunched his shoulders as though to get himself set to spring at a split second's notice.

Another minute, and the door opened and the Sergeant reappeared. He pulled the door wide, stood to one side and motioned for the two air aces to enter. They stepped through into a plainly furnished outer office. The Sergeant closed the door, walked past them and opened a door on the right.

"In there, sirs," he said. "Major Barber is waiting."

"And just who is Major Barber?" Freddy Farmer demanded, and didn't move.

The Sergeant started to grin but cut it off instantly.

"He'll tell you, sir," he said. "Go in, please."

The two youths hesitated a fraction of a second longer; then by mutual accord they stepped through the second door and into a smaller office. It contained a desk, a few chairs, a filing cabinet or two, and a lone picture of President Roosevelt on the wall. Seated at the desk was an iron gray-haired Major in the uniform of infantry staff. He smiled and rose from his chair as they entered.

"Evening, Captains Dawson and Farmer," he said, and extended his hand. "Glad to see you here. Sit down, both of you."

The two youths shook hands with him, and then settled themselves in chairs. The Major reseated himself and rearranged a few papers on his desk. Dave watched him closely, and spun his brain in an effort to try and figure out just what the picture was this time. Presently the Major looked up and gave them both a quizzical smile.

"Of course you're not wondering anything, are you?" he asked with a faint chuckle. "Any trouble on the way down here?"

Dave stiffened slightly. Things began to click a little in his head. He gave the senior officer a long searching look.

"No, not a thing, Major," he lied quietly. Then with a little gesture of one hand, "Should something have happened?"

That seemed to please the Major, for he grinned broadly. A moment later he took a card from his pocket and passed it across the desk.

"Time to unmask, I guess," he said. "There's my identification. You can both relax. Sorry things had to be so mysterious, but that's the way we have to work sometimes."

Dave took the card and held it so Freddy Farmer could see it also. He took one look, gulped, and shot a quick glance at the grinning man in infantry staff uniform. The card, which contained a small picture, plus a left thumb print, stated that the holder was one Major E. J. Barber, officer in charge of all Commando units in training in the United States. It was signed by General Marshall, and also by Colonel Welsh.

The name was suddenly very familiar to Dave, but he couldn't place it exactly for a moment. Freddy Farmer beat him to it.

"I say!" he gasped. "Major Barber! Of course! You served originally with the British, sir. You helped build the original British Commando force. You won the Military Cross, and the Distinguished Service Order for those first Commando raids on Occupied Norway. And now—?"

Freddy stopped as though embarrassed at blurting out so much. The senior officer widened his grin and nodded.

"You've unmasked me, Farmer," he said. "That's right. And now that Uncle Sam is in it, I'm fighting under my own country's flag. But that's just the same as fighting under England's flag. From now on the two countries are going to become more and more like one big country, I think. Well, satisfied with my identity now, eh?"

Dave gravely handed back the card, and looked at the man.

"So it was a test?" he murmured, and placed the captured Commando knife on the desk with his other hand. "Do I feel a sap! That idea never even occurred to me. But they were as near the real thing as I ever hope to see. Thank goodness I wasn't carrying side-arms!"

"Eh?" Freddy Farmer ejaculated, pop-eyed. "A test...? Good grief! You mean those two chaps who had a go at us tonight? But I say—!"

The English-born air ace couldn't go on. He stopped abruptly and shook his head in stunned bewilderment. And as though his brain didn't realize what his hand was doing, he took out his own Commando knife and placed it on the table beside Dave's. Major Barber picked them both up and gently tapped the needle points against a fingernail as he looked admiringly at the two youths.

"Check and double check," he finally said. "That's just what happened. And I might add, you almost caused two of my best men to resign from the Commando service, or the Rangers, as it will become known as time goes on. Tonight was the first time that either of them had lost their knives. They were on the phone just a few minutes before you arrived. They declared that if there were any more like you two I wanted tested, I'd have to get somebody else. In fact, they begged me for a couple of days' leave to rest up from the rough going over you gave them. My congratulations!"

"Thanks, sir," Dave mumbled as he suddenly had a funny feeling in the stomach. "Holy smoke! If I'd been able to keep my grip on my man, I'm afraid I'd have broken his arm right off, and probably his neck. But a test! Why? I mean—that is—well, you do this sort of thing often, sir? I mean—"

Dave stopped and floundered about for suitable words. The Major tossed the two knives on the desk and leaned forward.

"Not every day, Dawson," he said quietly. "But often enough. Let me explain. As yet our Commando units are not organized or completely whipped into shape for action as all-American units. Some, however, who have gone through the training have shown that they are as good as they'll ever be, short of actual experience against the enemy. Those men we pick out and send across to get that actual service with operating British Commando units. With that action experience under their belts, they make fine instructors for the units we are sending over to England for final polishing up."

The Major paused to catch his breath and clear his throat.

"Each man selected for immediate active service is ordered to report to me here," he continued presently. "He does not know that he is reporting for Commando duty, so the last thing he's thinking of is an attack upon his person here in New York City. That way I can tell for sure if he is the man that I want to send across in advance of the regular Commando forces. My two men, both of whom have seen actual Commando service with me, carry out the test and report to me. Up until tonight they rather enjoyed their work. They're tough, and they can take a lot of punishment. But it seems you two gave them a little extra to take tonight."

As the senior officer paused, both Dave and Freddy continued to sit silent and motionless. To tell the truth, their brains were spinning just a little too much to make comment possible. But in a few seconds Freddy managed to unhinge his tongue.

"So—so we're going across for Commando duty, sir?" he blurted out. "But I thought this Commando training was just a—well, a stopover between jobs Colonel Welsh had for us. I—"

"Hold everything, Farmer!" Major Barber laughed, and held up a hand. "I know you two are airmen, and it's the air where you shine the best. But—well, this is a bit different from my regular procedure. You're not going across as strictly Commando material. No, that's not right, either. You'll be all Commando. Don't worry about that. But in addition, there'll be an extra little assignment for you two to carry out."

"Sounds interesting, sir," Dave said eagerly, as the other paused. "What's the extra little assignment?"

The smile faded from Major Barber's face, and he shook his head vigorously.

"No soap, Dawson," he said. "You're not going to find that out right now. In fact, not until after you have arrived in England. And incidentally, you're leaving for England tonight."

Coming right on top of everything else that had happened, the Major's last statement brought both boys up straight in their chairs. They exchanged wide-eyed glances, and then focussed their gaze on the senior officer again.

"Leaving for England tonight?" Freddy Farmer echoed breathlessly. "I say! That's wonderful! Positively marvelous!"

"Figured it might please you, Farmer," Major Barber said with a smile. "Yes, all three of us are leaving for England tonight. You'll have me for company, if you can stand it, as far as Botwood, in Newfoundland. An Army bomber is waiting at Mitchel Field for us right now. At Botwood, though, we'll part company. At Botwood you two will get further orders."

The Commando chief paused for a moment and stared thoughtfully down at the desk top. Eventually he raised his eyes and gave a little half shrug.

"I don't want you two to be too much in the dark," he said slowly, "so I'll tell you that this show, if carried out successfully, will have a marked bearing on whether or not the United Nations open up that second front that everybody is yelling their heads off about. And—take it as a sincere compliment, if you wish—a good chunk of that success is going to rest on your youthful shoulders."

"Well, that clears up everything, sir," Dave said with a grin. "Now we know what this is all about."

"Stop fishing, Dawson," Major Barber chuckled at him. "It won't do you the least bit of good. Not that I don't trust you two as much as I'd trust my own father and mother. But that's not the point. As we all know, the fewer who know about a surprise, the more of a surprise it is. And I definitely want this little business to be a surprise to Hitler and his bunch of cutthroats. So until the time is ripe, nobody is being told a thing about anything."

Grave and serious as the conversation was, Dave couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his lips. The Major spotted it and cocked an eyebrow.

"Something strike you funny, Dawson?" he asked.

"No, not funny, sir," Dave replied instantly. Then with a flash side glance at Freddy's intent and grave face, he went on, "I agree with you that it's best to wait until the time is right for final instructions. Besides snoring something terrible, Farmer, here, often talks in his sleep."

It was just the thing needed to ease the mounting tension. Major Barber burst into gales of laughter, and Freddy Farmer practically shot straight up out of his seat, and turned all the colors of the rainbow. Dave put out a protective hand.

"Take it easy, pal!" he cried. "I've got a witness to anything you do. Better wait until we're alone."

The red remained in Freddy's cheeks, but he made no move toward Dave. He simply regarded him with scorn, rather like something the cat had dragged in. Then he looked at Major Barber.

"Your two test men gave you a complete report on tonight's little affair, sir?" he asked. "They told you everything?"

The senior officer blinked, and stared at Freddy as though trying to find out what was behind the words.

"Why, yes, I believe so," he said. "But was there something they left out?"

Freddy looked at Dave with friendly pity in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dave," he said quietly. "I know I promised, but—well, that last remark from you deserves the punishment of the truth. Sorry, and all that. But you asked for it, old man."

"Say, what is this?" Major Barber demanded, leaning forward. "What truth about Dawson?"

"Then they didn't tell you that part, sir?" Freddy Farmer murmured. "That it was Dawson who threw himself flat to the sidewalk and screamed for the police while I battled those two chaps?"

"Ouch!" Dave cried, and clapped a hand to his forehead. "Will I never learn to keep my big mouth shut!"

CHAPTER FOUR

Next Stop, England!

Grey skies covered the world from north to south, and from east to west. Standing on the tarmac of the now world famous Botwood field, from which countless planes had been flown by unsung air heroes to eagerly awaiting pilots on the other side of the Atlantic, Dave and Freddy tugged their flying suit collars a bit tighter and looked at each other, bright-eyed.

"Some sight, hey, pal?" Dave grunted, and swept a hand toward the array of war planes of all descriptions that lined all four sides of the field. "It would kind of make Adolf feel sick, if he could get a look at that bunch."

"He'll hear them, if not see them, soon enough!" Freddy replied with emphasis. "And I hope I'll be in one of them that's right over his head. I say! What beastly weather, though!"

"This?" Dave echoed, and looked at him in surprise. "Why, I should think it would make you feel homesick. I've seen plenty of weather just like this on your tea-drinking island. Holy smoke! Every time the sun comes out in England, you birds don't know what it is that's happened for the first couple of minutes. What's the matter, pal? Down in the dumps because you've been hooked for a bit of possible action?"

"No, not a bit of it," Freddy sighed. "Just the usual unhappy feeling. Man! How I'd love to be given a war assignment without having to worry about you being along to probably mess up the whole business! But I suppose that's the cross I must bear."

"You'll bear a punch in the nose, if you don't look out!" Dave growled. "But, kidding aside, I wonder what comes next? Major Barber dropped us like hotcakes the minute we arrived in that Army bomber. Told us to go get breakfast, and have a look around. Well, we've been doing that for a couple of hours now. Me, I could do with those further orders he was talking about."

"Me, too," Freddy said with a nod. "But I fancy he'll get around to it when he's good and ready. This isn't the first time we've been kept in the dark as to what things were all about."

"Nor will it be the last!" Dave grunted. "But I don't blame the Major a bit. In this war you can tell a secret to the Sphinx, and first thing you know it's all over town. But that Major Barber is a good guy. And plenty! Me for him, any day in the week. I'll wait, if he says so."

"Nice of you," Freddy chuckled. "You blasted well will, and jolly well like it, too, my fine friend."

"Okay, okay!" Dave growled. "I was only pointing out—Oh, skip it! What type bomber would you like to go across in, Freddy? There're all makes here."

"Any one of them, it doesn't matter," Freddy replied, "just so long as it gets me to England, and soon. I say! Have a look at those two transports coming in to land! They don't plan to ferry those big things across empty, do they? I don't see any stores of equipment laying around here waiting for transportation across."

Dave didn't reply for a moment. He stared at the two huge Curtiss-built troop transports that were circling the field and coming around into the landing wind.

"Those aren't new jobs waiting to be ferried places," he grunted after a moment or two. "They've seen service. They're not right off the factory assembly line. They're—Well, what do you know!"

Dave breathed the last as one of the two planes touched ground and braked to a gentle stop. The fuselage doors opened and U. S. Commando-garbed troops started pouring out. The second transport landed and started unloading its cargo of fighting Commandos. There were forty-five in each plane, complete with equipment, and looking as though they were ready to land on the French side of the English Channel any time the whistle was blown.

"Which means we're going to have company on the ride across, I guess," Dave spoke again. "Some of the boys who also passed Major Barber's little check test with flying colors. Let's go over and see if any of them were in training with us. I think I recognize a couple of them from here."

"Right you are," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Let's go over and see."

They hadn't taken more than a dozen steps apiece, however, before a headquarters orderly came running up to them.

"The Field Commandant wants you to report to his office at once, Captains," the orderly informed them. "It's over there at that corner of the field."

"I see it, and thanks," Dave answered for both of them. "On the way, now."

Inside the field office, they found Major Barber seated with Colonel Stickney, Commandant of the field. He smiled at them and pointed at a couple of empty chairs.

"Were you beginning to think I had forgotten about you two?" the Major asked. "Have a chair, and relax. Colonel Stickney, here, will give you your further orders."

The two youths seated themselves and looked respectfully at the Field Commandant. Colonel Stickney was the kind of a man who brushed formalities aside and got right down to brass tacks. Maybe that's one reason why he was one of the most able officers in the U. S. Army Air forces.

"You two are taking off at ten o'clock tonight," he said. "You're not going across with the ferry bombers or troop transports, however. I've got two Lockheed P-Thirty-Eights that are waiting to be delivered in England. You'll each take one of them. For the crossing extra gas tanks have been fitted. As you both probably know, we've been ferrying pursuits across, as well as bombers, for several weeks now. They fly without guns, or ammo, and have extra tanks fitted. You drop the extra tanks into the sea when you've used up their fuel. Naturally, you switch them in first so's to be carrying less weight on the last half of your trip."

The Colonel paused and stared down at his fingers for a moment or two.

"You saw those two Commando transports that just sat down?" he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "Well, those troops are being carried across in the ferry bomber flight that'll take off before you do. Your P-Thirty-Eights make faster time, of course, so the take-off times will be set so that you'll catch up with the flight of ferry bombers a hundred miles or so this side of Ireland. Obviously, it will be part of your job to escort them along the final lap to Land's End, England."

The Colonel paused again and caught the look the two youths quickly exchanged. He grinned faintly.

"No, it's not going to be like that in your case," he said bluntly. "Your P-Thirty-Eights will be armed to the hilt. I hope you won't have to use your guns, though!"

Dave looked at him and leaned forward a bit.

"You have reason to believe that we might, sir?" he asked quietly.

The senior officer shrugged and plucked at his lower lip.

"No, I haven't," he said after a long pause. "Anything can happen in this cockeyed war, however. As I said, those Commando troops you just now saw climb from those transports are going across to the other side by air. It will be the first time that ferry bombers have taken troops across in any numbers. Tonight's trip may prove to be the beginning of transporting troops to Europe by air. To date, and contrary to general belief, not one single plane that's been ferried from here to the other side has been lost due to enemy air action. However, as in all things, there has to be a beginning sometime."

Colonel Stickney stopped talking and nodded his head for emphasis.

"The taking of those Commando troops out there to England has been kept as much of a secret as is humanly possible to keep a secret," he said at length. "Right now, not one of them knows that he's going across by bomber tonight. That doesn't mean a thing, though. The Nazis may be women and children killers, but they are no fools. They're every bit as smart as we are, and don't let anybody kid you they aren't. For that reason there is no reason to believe that they haven't found out about this little thing we're trying tonight. Fact is, I'm assuming that they have found out. That's why you two are acting as escort for the ferry ships. In short, in case some Occupied France-based Nazi planes come out to smash up our aerial convoy. If any do, then it will be up to you to see they don't get to first base. You understand?"

Dave nodded, but Freddy Farmer looked puzzled.

"Get to first base, sir?" he echoed. "Where's that base located?"

The other three suppressed their laughter, but they couldn't help smiling at Freddy's innocent inquiry.

"An American baseball expression, Farmer," Colonel Stickney explained. "I mean, it's up to you two to see that any Nazi raiding planes don't even get a chance to get close enough for action. Get it, now?"

"Oh, quite, and sorry, sir," Freddy said, and blushed.

"Think nothing of it, Farmer," the other said kindly. "Yank slang is a language all its own. Takes time to learn it. And when you have, the next generation below you is talking an even different jargon. But that's the American kid for you. Well, if you've got it all straight, and there are no questions, I guess that's all I have to say. Are there any questions? You'll be given flight charts and flight signals to use en route later, of course."

"All clear to me, sir," Dave spoke up.

"Quite, sir," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Can't say I hope you get your wish, though, sir."

"Huh? What's that?" the Field Commandant demanded.

"I mean, that we won't have to use our guns," Freddy replied with a smile. "A bit of Nazi action at the end of the trip would suit me fine. Successful action from our point of view, of course."

"Check, and how!" Dave breathed before he could stop his tongue.

Colonel Stickney tried to give them the hard eye and stern face, but found it too difficult.

"Knowing of the air records of you two," he grunted, "I'm not surprised to hear that from you. Just the same, I hope you don't have to use your guns, either of you. It'll be a mighty big responsibility you'll be flying with tonight, Captains. Don't either of you forget that for a single instant!"

"Quite, sir," Freddy said evenly, and there was no twinkle in his eye now.

"Also, check," Dave grunted, and meant it.

The senior officer glanced at his watch and nodded.

"That's all, then," he said. "Captain Jones, the Field Flight Officer, will show you the two planes you're to fly. Better look him up and test hop the two ships to make sure they're in condition for the ocean hop. And in case I don't see either of you again, good luck, both here, and on the other side. I'll be keeping my eye on the communiqués."

The two youths thanked him, saluted, and went outside.

"Well, we're going to England," Dave said when they were alone and walking along the edge of the field. "We know that much for sure, anyway."

"Right you are!" Freddy cried happily, and did a little jig to express his feelings further. "Home to dear old England. I can hardly wait...."

"For a pot of that dish water you call tea!" Dave interrupted with a laugh. "Well, there's the Atlantic out there, pal. You can start swimming right now, if you want."

"I don't," Freddy snapped. "The blinking Navy can have the water. I'll take the air. But I wasn't fooling in there, Dave. I really do hope we meet up with a couple of Nazi beggars in Messerschmitts."

"And they call the Germans blood-thirsty!" Dave jeered good-naturedly. "What a guy! One minute he's singing songs of his dear old homeland, and the next he's saying how he hopes to knock off a brace of Germans on the way. You want everything, don't you?"

"Very much so!" the English-born ace cracked at him. "Particularly if it's Nazi pilots and observers. I want all I can get of those dirty blighters."

"Well, I guess I'm with you there, pal," Dave chuckled. "The fewer Germans I can leave living in this world, the better I'll like it. Well, let's go hunt up this Captain Jones and get a look at those two winged babies we've got dates with tonight."

CHAPTER FIVE

Dead Man's Wings

A thin pale line of light marked where the eastern horizon met the night sky. Settled comfortably in the pit of his Lockheed P-Thirty-Eight, Dave Dawson nodded his head and half raised his free hand in a form of salute.

"Greetings, dawn," he murmured. "Nice to see that you're with us again. Now if you'll just brighten up enough to let me make sure that that really is Freddy's plane off my left wing, then everything will be pretty okay."

For a little under six hours he had been driving the Lockheed across the cold grey waters of the North Atlantic with only the dark of night, the stars, and an occasional blink of Freddy Farmer's navigation lights for companionship. The take-off at Botwood, and the flight up to now, had been totally without incident or accident. Now, though, dawn was coming up in the east. The light of a new day was spreading across the face of a war-torn world. And in time of war no man can tell what the new day may bring for himself, or for anybody else, for that matter.

"But we should be overtaking the ferry bombers soon," he grunted the thought aloud. "And at least that will be something to break the monotony. Boy! I sure take my hat off to the ferry pilots. Night after night, tooling planes across to England, with nothing to do but sit and let her ride the air. Personally, I'd go nuts. But—Ah, there you are, Freddy, old pal. It really has been you all the time."

He spoke the last as sufficient dawn light spread up out of the east to permit him a good look at the other P-Thirty-Eight that was keeping pace on the left. The two air aces waved to each other, and waggled wings in salute. But neither of them spoke over the radio, for that was the one fixed rule of ferry flying across the North Atlantic. Maintain radio silence at all times, and keep it! Too many Nazi stations were open and waiting to pick up ferry plane radio signals and take a cross bearing on their exact position, and send out their shore-based long range fighters to reduce the number of planes that were heading for England.

And so the two youths simply saluted each other silently, and drew in to closer formation—where they could make faces at each other, and go through the kind of gestures that only airmen understand. After a few minutes of that long distance horseplay, however, they tired of it. And both of them concentrated on searching the brightening skies ahead for their first glimpse of the bombers being ferried over. It wasn't long before Freddy Farmer's eagle eyes scored another "first."

Dave saw him waggle his wings vigorously and point ahead and a bit to the left. He looked in that direction, and just when his straining eyes were about to smart and water he saw the cluster of black dots outlined against the light in the east. He counted them, and heaved a little impulsive sigh of relief when they totalled twenty-one. Twenty-one bombers had taken off from Botwood. He stared at the dots, watched them grow larger and take on their rightful outlines, and wondered in which one Major Barber was riding. He didn't wonder in which ones the advance contingent of Commandos was riding, because he knew that. Every one of the ferry bombers had some of the Commandos aboard.

"And it's up to me and Freddy to see that they reach England in good shape," he grunted aloud. "Well, no reason why we can't see that they do just that. The way I feel now, I'm set to tackle a couple of dozen long range Nazi fighters. And Freddy must feel the same. So that makes a total of forty-eight we could take care of nicely, and I doubt that Goering would send out more than that number. Hold it, kid! Are you trying to get a little vocal cord exercise, or are you trying to prove to yourself you're quite a hot pilot? Why not shut up and tend to your knitting, and let come what will come?"

With a tight grin and a nod for emphasis, he continued flying toward the group of ferry bombers. Presently he waggled his wings at Freddy and signalled with his free hand. The English youth answered with a nod of his head, and the pair took up escort positions above and to the rear of the twenty-one planes winging down the home stretch to England.

Some twenty minutes ticked past, and suddenly Freddy Farmer came swerving in sharply toward Dave's plane. As Dave saw his pal cut in, the back of his neck started to tingle, and his heart started to pound a little harder against his ribs. He knew at once the reason for Freddy's sudden maneuver, but as he swept the dawn-tinted skies ahead with his eyes he was unable to spot anything to justify it. But that didn't stop the tingling at the back of his neck, nor the increased pounding of his heart. Freddy, of course, had sighted enemy aircraft, and that he couldn't see them didn't mean that Freddy was all wet.

Anyway, he stopped peering at the skies ahead and looked at Freddy swinging in to wingtip nearness. Across the short stretch of air space that separated them he saw the flush of excitement in Freddy's face, and he imagined that he could see the bright, brittle light of battle in his pal's eyes. Freddy had shoved open his "greenhouse" and was sticking an arm up through the opening and pointing wildly ahead and a degree or two to the south.

Dave squinted in that direction, and squinted hard. But all he got for his efforts was an ache in his eyes. He could see absolutely nothing but the advance glare of the new sun that was racing up out of the east. True, his imagination caused him to "see" all sorts of other things. But he had only to brush a hand across his eyes, or blink, and the "other things" wouldn't be there any more.

Then, suddenly, he saw them!

Three moving dots, so low down that they were practically in line with the horizon, and completely backgrounded by the yellowish orange rays of the coming sun. The instant he spotted them he pinned them in his vision, and breathlessly waited for the moment when they would take on sufficient outline for him to tell their type. On impulse he bent his lips to the flap mike to ask Freddy the obvious question. But he checked himself in time, and spoke not a word. Radio silence had been the order. And radio silence it had to be, even if the whole darn Nazi Luftwaffe was tearing out for a crack at the ferry bombers.

"They could be R.A.F. planes headed out to give us a hand with the escorting," he murmured.

Even as he spoke the words, however, he knew that he was simply whistling in the dark. If it had been decided for R.A.F. planes to fly out from England and meet them, they would have been informed of that fact before leaving Botwood. No, those three dots weren't R.A.F. planes. So there was only one answer. They were Nazi long range fighters, and Colonel Stickney's words about German Intelligence not being stupid were bearing fruit. Word of this ferry bomber-Commando aerial convoy to England had reached German ears. And there were three Nazi planes tearing out to do something drastic about it.

For a moment or two Dave took his eyes off the three dots rushing up out of the dawn light and glanced at the bomber formation prop-clawing toward England. Ice coated his heart, and his throat became dry and tight. Twenty-one bombers heading for England, unarmed. Twenty-one bombers, each of which carried its crew and a certain number of highly trained Yank Commandos!

"And it's up to Freddy and me to see that they get there!" Dave muttered grimly.

In the next instant a wave of blazing anger swept through him. What did Colonel Stickney think Freddy and he were? A whole confounded fighter squadron? It wasn't fair to give them complete charge of such an important aerial convoy. More fighter pilots should have been sent along to help them out, just in case. Doggone it! What did they think Freddy and he were? Cats with nine lives apiece? Darn it...!

The wave of anger vanished just as quickly as it came. A cold calmness took charge of Dave, and he deliberately reached up his free hand and twisted the ring on his electric trigger button to "Fire." Then he turned his head and glanced over at Freddy. A set grin was on the English youth's face, and as their eyes met Freddy lifted his right hand with the fingers closed and the thumb sticking straight up. Dave nodded and returned the thumbs up sign.

"After all, there're only three of them," he grunted, and switched his gaze back to the advancing dots. "If Freddy and I can't handle three of the tramps, then we just don't belong!"

The dots were no longer dots. They had taken on definite shape and outlines. And they were as Dave expected them to be, three long range Messerschmitt One-Tens. At that very instant the two wing planes broke away from the center plane to opposite sides, and took up positions for a three direction attack on the ferry bomber formation. Dave shot out his hand and shoved the throttles of the P-Thirty-Eight's Allison engines wide open. Then he eased the nose up a hair, and with Freddy right at his wingtip he went streaking up over the ferry bombers and straight for the center Messerschmitt.

Not a word, of course, had been spoken between them. But there was no need for words. Too often had they tackled three enemy planes in spread out line formation not to know exactly what should be done, and to do it instinctively. And so, wingtip to wingtip, they slammed straight at the center Messerschmitt as though it were the only enemy craft in the air, and they were bent on its immediate destruction.

When they were still a ways from it they both opened fire and sliced a shower of hissing bullets across the sky. If they got any lucky shots into the center Messerschmitt, they didn't know. But hitting it was not their big idea. On the contrary, they counted on exactly what happened. The pilot of the center Messerschmitt didn't like the idea of two P-Thirty-Eights boring in at him. He started to return the fire, then lost heart and slammed down in a sharp dive.

But even before the German broke away from the fight, Dave and Freddy were completing the rest of their maneuver. Like streaks of greased lightning, each whirled off to his side and went thundering in for a broadside attack on the two other Messerschmitts about to close with the helpless ferry bomber formation. Maybe the pilots of those two Nazi planes figured that they had actually remained hidden in the rays of the dawn sun. Maybe they figured that Dave and Freddy had decided to make sure of at least one victim, and pray the other two would miss the bombers and over-shoot and have to come back. In fact, maybe those Nazi pilots figured a lot of things. The point is, though, they figured all wrong. For a couple of moments they had a chance at the bombers that was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. But in the next they had a couple of flying wild men on their necks.

The impulse to twist around and see how Freddy was making out with his man was strong in Dave as he went cutting in at his victim with all guns blazing. Naturally, though, he didn't dare take out even that small amount of time. Even if Freddy and he got their respective Messerschmitts there was still a third boiling around some place in the sky. And so he tore in savagely, and thrilled with wild joy as he saw his tracers cutting into the Messerschmitt from its two spinning props clear back to the double-finned tail. The Nazi gunner-observer returned his fire, and the pilot tried to whip around and into the clear. For all the good it did him he might just as well have climbed out and tried to walk the dawn sky back to Germany.

The Messerschmitt seemed suddenly to fly smack into an invisible brick wall in the sky. The plane fell off sharply to the right, and came way up by the nose. For a brief instant it hovered there in the air. Then red flame belched out from the two underslung Benz-Daimler engines, and in the next split second the whole business was just a mass of fire slithering down toward the rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic.

"Save a seat for Hitler, where you're going!" Dave yelled as he pulled his P-Thirty-Eight up and around. "He'll be joining you before very long. And—"

The rest died in his throat, and his heart seemed to zoom up and jam against his back teeth. It was at that moment that he saw Freddy Farmer's plane flip-flopping and half spinning down out of the sky as though either it were completely out of control—or its pilot were dead. And thundering down with blazing guns after Freddy were the two other Messerschmitts.

"No, no, it can't happen!" Dave sobbed wildly, and whirled off his climb and down into a dive. "Freddy boy! What happened? They didn't get you! They didn't get you!"

Those and other words of anguish spilled off his lips as he hammered his Lockheed down in a wing-screaming dive. So great was his excitement, and so great the terror that clutched at his heart, he failed to see that Nazi bullets weren't coming very close to Freddy's plane. As a matter of fact, the Germans were shooting half-heartedly. With the Lockheed headed straight for the North Atlantic, they figured that the finish of their victim was inevitable.

But they hadn't figured on Dave, nor the terrific diving speed of his plane. As a result the "fun" for one of them was short-lived. Though his heart shed tears of blood for Freddy Farmer, Dave's grip on the controls was rock steady, and his eye to the ring sight keen and sharp. A two second burst from his guns was all that was needed. A longer burst would have been sheer waste of ammunition. The Nazi's wing came off as though hacked clean by a knife. What was left spun like so much stiff paper tossed into a whirlpool, and then broke up in a shower of flying wreckage.

One Nazi less, but what of it? Freddy was but a couple of hundred feet from the water now, and still flip-flopping helplessly downward with the remaining German pecking away at him. Stark reality was like white hot knives twisting about in Dave's heart and in his brain. Tears flooded his eyes, and he unconsciously hammered his free fist against the already wide open throttles.

"Dear God, please no!" he sobbed. "Don't take Freddy. Don't take Freddy away. I need him! England needs him. The whole decent part of the world needs him. Please don't...!"